


Midsummer Night

by Mx_Dragon



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Dragon/pseuds/Mx_Dragon
Summary: Lines of every kind tend to blur in Silent Hill.(Originally published July 4, 2008 on AdultFanfiction under the name screamer1234.)
Relationships: Maria/James Sunderland, Mary Shepherd-Sunderland/James Sunderland, Pyramid Head/James Sunderland
Kudos: 10





	Midsummer Night

**Author's Note:**

> Original author's note: "I figured it was about time I wrote some seriously disturbed PH/James. So here you go. Have fun! :D ...and yes, I know that 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' and 'Romeo and Juliet' are different plays. Originally written as sort of a challenge to myself--I could only have one sentence after each quote. Obviously, I didn't stick with that, but it shows anyway."

_“If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”_

James sleeps in the deep, paralyzing fog wherever he falls, curled up in a corner with his knees at his chin, revolver in hand. He sleeps now, and dreams of the white, alcohol hospital in a fetid wash of guilt like swampwater: he’d done it to her, he’d made her sick and he’d _defiled_ her. He’d dirtied his beloved Mary with his touch and his body and his lust, he’d dirtied her and he wanted to kill himself and he wanted to kill her and he wanted to seize her limp, sick body and fuck her, fuck her, _fuck her_ until her bones snapped and he overflowed down her shrunken thighs with a shuddering scream—

_“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”_

His nightmares swallow their own tails to the tune of sirens until he jerks awake and fires blindly into the bloody darkness, nostrils choked with the stench of rot and rust, hot and cold and aching between his legs for reasons that escape him like willful children. Too late, he wonders if he’s losing his mind.

Too late, he hears the scrambled screech of metal on blood-gummed concrete.

_“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”_

He’s pulled up by his jacket front, battered with a demonic roar, onto his feet to stare into blank, fierce metal angles like a monument to mercilessness. His weapon’s gone. His will is gone. He’s defenseless, weak with fatigue and an absurd sense of providence, a divine punishment that he deserves. _Only a dream, only a nightmare,_ he limply repeats to himself, too broken in every way to rise from his red, red sea of self-delusion, as his exhausted body heats at the touch of latex-gloved hands slick with stinking gore. _Only a—only, only only on—_

_“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”_

Those hands crush his wrists and a black, evil tongue slithers from the awful red helmet. It writhes and drips slime and stains him but that doesn’t matter, he’s already stained, he’s so, so perfectly filthy all the way down and he wails as vilely drooling, molten muscle curls around what no one has touched in so, so long.

(but it hasn’t been _that_ long, has it? no, that doesn’t make sense)

_“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”_

Fear runs freezing through him, icewater and vomit in his veins, clashing with boiling lust until his stomach heaves. Somehow it makes sense that he’s on his knees like this, (but it’s hard to remember why with such revoltingly arousing touches slipping over him, that infernal, heavenly tongue pulling him to the brink, until) he’s pushed down so his cheek rubs between his hands into the disgusting floor, so he grovels, so he's split in two with a hellfire sword and he cries Mary, Mary, _Mary!_

_“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.”_

Does he expect her to come down like an avenging angel, his loving wife, his Beatrice? Not if he forgets her, not if she slips from him with every punishing thrust that rips his body raw and makes him keen high in his throat, sounds like _maryi’msorrypleaseforgiveohgodpleasedon’tstop_ and then he can’t control himself anymore so he just _screams._

_“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.”_

Inhuman howls twine and climb to the ashen-fading sky; he wakes up with a jolt, sore and bruised and densely sticky. His clothes are perfectly intact. The revolver lies heavy in his hand. The last echo of sirens fades into his gory Hell; no time has passed at all. He curls tighter with a pitiful moan, trying to follow his mind as it collapses into a hysterical singularity. Instead he hears fluting, female laughter, the squeak of a vinyl skirt, the tidy swish of a short jacket. 

He looks up into a face resurrected, framed with short, pink-tipped blonde hair.

_“Then have my lips the sin that they have took.”_

_Am I going insane? Am I already…?_ Maria swallows him down with her painted/tainted mouth, swallows him (it’s okay because they look so much alike she has to be her has to has to be oh _mary_ ) down in the contaminated bed they found in one of the apartment's rooms, before sirens bled the fog away to red and black. There was no way he could refuse, ohmaryoh _God_ it feels so good as her eyes hollow suddenly back into her brain, her flesh collapses into the cavities of her body, shining wet and stinking, as the Great Knife erupts from her belly.

_“Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.”_

And James shrieks out in bliss and fear as she swallows the rest of him.

_“Give me my sin again.”_


End file.
